


Happiness

by unreconstructedfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aging, Black Holes And Revelations, Established Relationship, Gardens & Gardening, Kindness, M/M, Neurological Disorders, Not a Sad Story, Retirementlock, Self-Doubt, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Story: The Adventure of the Retired Colourman, Sussex, will include intimate moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreconstructedfangirl/pseuds/unreconstructedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are built to last, no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quicksand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctornerdington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/gifts).



> First and foremost, I have to thank [doctornerdington](http://doctornerdington.tumblr.com/), who helped me more than I can ever say with sound, writerly advice, infinitely kind and generous encouragement and most of all, her friendship. I love you, Doc.
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has helped me, especially: [thursdayj](http://thursdayj.tumblr.com/) for her brainstorming assistance and beta reading on the first chapter, and [notagarroter](http://notagarroter.tumblr.com/) for her kind read-through and comments, also on the first chapter. All errors, misplaced commas and typos are my own, and if you see them, please alert me! Finally, many, many thanks to [Ambrose42](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrose42/pseuds/Ambrose42) for sharing her own experience of Parkinson's with me, and her read through to ensure that my depiction is in the neighbourhood of realism.
> 
> Finally, thanks to anyone and everyone else who has offered me encouragement and help, given me kudos, made comments, reblogged my posts... and especially anyone who is still reading this when it took me a goddamned AGE. My apologies, and deepest gratitude to all.

**Happiness**

_by Stephen Dunn_

A state you must dare not enter  
with hopes of staying,  
quicksand in the marshes, and all

the roads leading to a castle  
that doesn't exist.  
But there it is, as promised,

with its perfect bridge above  
the crocodiles,  
and its doors forever open.

_from New and Selected Poems 1974-1994_

***

The evening Sherlock knows for certain that something is profoundly not as it should be follows on the heels of the kind of gloriously perfect midsummer day that he is certain can only be properly appreciated by retirees from a lifetime of bustle in the city—those who have seen a retreating horizon of grey drizzle, noise, and smog give way to the deep, unspeakable pleasure of a day spent in the garden under high white clouds adrift in a delicately blue sky. Sherlock spent that day bathed in the gentle warmth of a temperate English sun, breathing air that was fragrant with earth and blossom, alive to a lightly ruffling breeze, the gliding chirrups of house martins, and the industry of his bees.

Sherlock Holmes - dressed in soft brown cord that has long since lost its shape to being stretched over bony knees and stained from kneeling in grass and soil, his faded chambray sleeves pushed up loosely over sharp elbows, his long white fingers smudged with earth from weeding, unkempt black hair shot through with white and silver, limbs long and slender, eyes as hard to classify as ever in a freckled, lined, angular, and arrestingly strange but still handsome face—breathes in the clean air, and listens with satisfaction to the ever-present hum of his hives. He’s spent the morning dead-heading the Antirrhinum and Alcea, shaking dried blooms out of the Lavendula and Lonicera, pruning the Buddliea and kingfisher blue Clematis, weeding the Solidago bed along the fence, and generally doing all he can to make the garden a haven and larder for his bees’ tireless harvest of nectar and pollen.

Feeling unaccountably fatigued (one does, sometimes, on bright days), he stops for a moment to rest, sitting back on his heels. Shading his eyes with a long hand, he turns to squint up at the house, up into the dormer window in the garret. The casements there are thrown open, and there’s slight flutter of white linen curtains. John’s study. He can see the business end of John’s telescope—a birthday gift from the year they bought the cottage, an offering to new days and new pursuits—and if he leans back on his heels, he can just see the crown of John’s head lit by a shaft of sunlight, neither blond nor properly grey—silvery gold—the rest of him in shade. He’s writing. Sherlock’s gaze lingers, and John’s head comes up as if he feels Sherlock’s eyes on him, his weathered face lifting into the light, blue eyes catching the sun, thin lips already turned up—a slight, soft smile.

Sherlock smiles faintly back, and turns back to his task. He’s preparing the ground for a new Anemone Hupehensis—a gift from John. It’s got two newly opened, bowl-shaped, deep pink flowers, with luminous yellow starbursts of pollen-heavy anther held aloft atop tall stalks with dark green maple-like leaves, and many more unopened buds. Male and female flowers on the same plant. Lovely. Perfect for the bees. He buries his spade in the damp earth, breaking up the clumps with the edge and mixing in handfuls of peat—Anemones like acidic soil—before lowering the roots into place, patting the topsoil down around it, and straightening to sit back and examine his work.

Leaning back, his hands on his thighs, Sherlock is distracted suddenly by the index finger on his right hand, which will not stay still, but trembles and jumps out of phase with the rest of him. He is at peace, but his finger is…not. There’s a difficult-to-account-for feeling of fizzing numbness in the arm. It’s not the first time. Sherlock is aware, suddenly, that (as before) he cannot control it. The finger will not be stilled, and his arm feels weak and immobile. He feels... unnerved. He watches it dance and jerk for a moment, his face blank. He feels dismay. The loss of control disgusts him. He tries to make a fist and finds that he can’t, so using his left hand, he folds the right one into a fist and squeezes it, hard and tight, knuckles white, and wills the involuntary movement to stop. After a moment, it seems to. He holds the hand out and flexes his fingers. He lets out a long breath. It’s better. He puts it from his mind. Delete it. It’s nothing. 

Only transport. 

+++

Watching from the attic window, John sees the fleeting expression of helpless consternation in Sherlock’s face, and the clench of Sherlock’s white fist, and his smile fades. He’s seen that before, too, and he’s seen what caused it. There have always been plenty of things that are just Sherlock—Sherlock being Sherlock—but John is a still a practising doctor. He aligns that little tremor with the way Sherlock’s voice has gone strangely and unconsciously quiet sometimes; the way his face has moments of unnaturally expressionless smoothness; the way he sometimes finds Sherlock standing in the hallway, between rooms, motionless, as if arrested mid-transit, frozen in place until activated again by John’s presence. He’s seen the disordered and sometimes Lilliputian handwriting in Sherlock’s bee-keeping journals and on the random lists Sherlock sometimes leaves lying about the house. He’s noticed that after years of peaceful sleep, Sherlock has again become restless at night, sometimes flailing awake, confused and disoriented, still immersed in his dream, or other times jolting into consciousness with his feet twisting, or his calves cramping and stiff, begging John to massage them out and ease his pain.

Sitting in his office, surrounded by hand-drawn maps of the stars—white pencil on black card, the heavens as he has seen them from his dormer window—he places that clenched fist and the tremble that preceded it into the constellation he knows best. John doesn’t delete things, certainly not things about Sherlock. He knows that tremor and the subsequent white fist for what it is: a material disturbance in the concrete poetry of well-known joints and limbs. It’s a symptom, and like celestial light bending around an impossible density in the endless mystery of space, it’s a lens, focused on a diagnosis that is not at all unlike a gravitational singularity that John knows is inexorably drawing them both towards it. When he puts all of it together, John sees the shape of something dark and dense, and not at all distant.

He rubs a hand over his face roughly, rubs his eyes. Takes a deep breath in through his nose. Lets it out. Watches Sherlock in his garden. Feels like crying, but doesn’t. It’s time to broach his concerns. No more waiting.

He does it later that night.

+++

It doesn’t go well. Not at first.

At first, Sherlock won’t admit that anything’s wrong at all. He’s dismissive—abrupt and cold in a way he hasn’t been in years. John knows better than to take it personally. By now, he is an accomplished master at managing Sherlock Holmes, of not rising to Sherlock’s barbs, of quietly pushing back just enough, but never too much. He is gently implacable.

“Sherlock,” he says, very calmly, leaning forward in his armchair to lay his hand over Sherlock’s tensely clasped ones, “I will not take ‘sod off’ for an answer. I know you know it’s not nothing. I know you. Hm?”

Sherlock raises his eyes to John’s—pale and colourless in the nighttime light of their cosy sitting room, pale and raw—and acquiesces.

John presses Sherlock for details. Sherlock knows it’s not nothing, but he’s singularly unable (or unwilling?) to remember, or to deduce himself. He’s afraid. John sees Sherlock’s fear and wonders if it’s a cowardice of his own that he doesn’t want to be the doctor here. He doesn’t want to be the one to diagnose Sherlock. He wants to be a partner, equally powerless and frightened. He wants his fair share in the devastation. He withholds his suspicions and takes Sherlock to see a colleague at the local surgery where John still sees patients as a GP two mornings per week.

There’s a subsequent call to Mycroft and a few days later, they’re in London. There are tests and scans, and endless medical histories. John answers some of the questions Sherlock can’t (or won’t?), and it’s Mycroft’s hand-picked neuropathologist who finally tells Sherlock what John’s suspected for some time—exactly what he’s been dreading: 

“It’s Parkinson's, Mr. Holmes.”

John knew. And, he knows what it means: the slow depletion of dopaminergic neurons in Sherlock’s substantia nigra has reached the critical point when symptoms emerge. Now, the attrition will continue, bringing with it increasing and multiplying tremor; gradual and escalating loss of muscular control; the slow loss of Sherlock’s beautiful, upright posture, difficulties with gait and balance; loss of affect and expression; difficulties speaking and swallowing; disturbances in sleep; changes and difficulties with spatial and temporal perception; depression, possible delusions and hallucinations; and in the worst cases, cognitive impairment, dementia, and an inexorable decline until death.The disease is manageable but degenerative, and there is no cure. It’s a life sentence.

John knew, but the actual diagnosis still falls like a physical blow.

There’s so much they both have to lose, but sitting there in the neurologist's office, his hands clenched in his lap, John can only think of Sherlock, betrayed by his body. He turns to watch his partner in profile, searching his face to see how he bears the blow. Sherlock has aged, but he’s still striking and arch—serious and arrogant in a way that John knows isn’t as impervious as Sherlock would like people to think, and it pains John to see the bruised dignity in the way he holds himself steady, his fear and horror held firmly in check. John can see that it’s all vibrating under his skin, which has gone papery and white. John knows Sherlock will contain it and keep it down, but he feels his own fear and sadness bubbling up liquid in his chest, filling him and threatening to brim over. He doesn’t trust his own voice, so he takes Sherlock’s hand, wordlessly laces their fingers together and squeezes, his smile tight and falsely bright. He knows his eyes give him away, so he looks at his shoes, aware that he’s hiding nothing.

Sherlock thanks the doctor stiffly, his face an expressionless mask, and on the way to the car they don’t speak of it. After a long, silent drive, they arrive home well past supper time. Neither of them is hungry. Sherlock goes mutely up to bed. John listens to him knocking about upstairs, and drinks a glass of scotch alone, standing over the kitchen sink, staring into the darkened garden.

+++

That night, John climbs into bed behind a foetal Sherlock who lies awake staring into the dimness, his right hand trapped under the pillow, held down—held still—by the weight of his head. John burrows close, runs his hand down Sherlock’s ribs and hip. Strokes. Waits.

After a moment, muffled by the duvet, Sherlock murmurs, “How can you want me now, John? I’ll only get worse. It’s…” after a pause, “...disgusting.”

John draws in a deep breath, his brows knitting themselves together, his eyes filling suddenly. He’s glad Sherlock can’t see his face. He shakes his head, bringing his nose and lips close, breathing in the warmth of the soft skin and disordered curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and speaks in the tone that no one else will ever, ever hear.

“How can I not… hmm? I’ve wanted you all this time. Just… Sherlock. Stop.” He pauses and moves against his lover.

After more than a decade living together—bordering and protecting each other—the barriers and uncertainties that once stood between them have eroded, allowing softness and candor to bloom in their intimate spaces. John has always been surprised by how well retirement has suited Sherlock, once the notion had taken hold in his imagination; how unresistingly he’d given up the rush of London and their cases and given in to the quieter rhythm of their life together in Sussex. It was as if Sherlock had given up the bustle and busy-ness of it all to fall into the arms of their slower days and gentler pursuits with something entirely like relief. Since the earliest days of their intimacy, it has always been greedy, naked and honest, but now, where there had once stood laboriously built bridges to span the distance between them, there is a gentler, more natural space, effortlessly and usually wordlessly traversed. 

But words are necessary tonight. John finds some:

“I’m going to want you as long I’m breathing. I can’t not. We can do this. It’s... a blow, I...I’ll grant you. But it’s why we’re... Sherlock... I’m here.”

John breathes them into Sherlock’s skin. He runs his warm palm down over hip and flank, and back up to Sherlock’s chest, through the sparse hair there, and down again to his belly, sweet, warm, and soft under the duvet, presses Sherlock against himself, and then reaches deeper into the curve of Sherlock’s pelvis. Sherlock straightens his knees a little with a trembling sigh, opening himself to John’s touch. John strokes and hums against Sherlock's hair, kisses Sherlock’s white shoulder, and worries a piqued nipple. He is rewarded by a sharply in-drawn breath and a deep rumble of encouragement. He smiles against Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock tilts his head back, turning to seek John’s lips—finds them. His cheeks are wet. John kisses him, tastes salt, and aches. Sherlock tilts his head back further, half turning his shoulders, eyes half closed, his head on John’s pillow. His mouth falls open and his breathing deepens.

“I love you,” John whispers, burying his face in Sherlock’s wild hair, stroking slowly, with a sure and practised hand, tightening his grip just a little, moving faster. “I love you.”

“John.” Sherlock breathes in response, pushing forward now to meet John’s grasp, his hand reaching back to hold John’s body flush against himself, “Oh, John.”


	2. John Watson's Journal, 13th July - 19th October

_**Tuesday, 11 July** _

_“If we are to achieve any understanding of what it is like to be Parkinsonian, of the actual nature of Parkinsonian existence (as opposed to the parameters of Parkinsonian motion), we must adopt a different and complementary approach and language. We must come down from our position as ‘objective observers’ and meet our patients face-to-face; we must meet them in a sympathetic and imaginative encounter: for it is only in the context of such a collaboration, a participation, a relation, that we can hope to to learn anything about how they are. They can tell us, and show us. what it is like to be Parkinsonian -- they can tell us, but nobody else can.”_

\-- Oliver Sacks, from the footnotes to the prologue of _Awakenings_

It’s certain now: Sherlock has Parkinson’s. He’s just had the news yesterday. I’ve suspected as much for some time now, but I’d hoped I was wrong. It’s just that so many of the things that make Sherlock Sherlock are also potential symptoms, and he’s always been—unusual. I just wonder how long ago I might have been able to catch it if I’d really been paying attention. 

God knows I didn’t want to see it.

Sherlock seems to have taken it—really, I don’t know how. He’s unemotional. I wonder how much of his mask-like expression is a symptom of the illness, and how much of it is just him acting like himself. Like nothing touches him. I’m trying to keep my emotions to myself. This isn’t about me. But, if there’s anything I’ve learned from being with Sherlock, it’s that loving another person means being vulnerable to pain and loss, and I can’t deny that I feel both.

Last night, he asked if he disgusted me. What a ridiculous question. Sherlock asking me that is—unbearable. I don’t know how he could imagine that. After all this time.

Today he seems perfectly normal—he’s checked the hives for mites, watered the garden. I can see him now through the windows in his potting shed, sitting at his workbench, bent over his manuscript. He’s said nothing to me about the diagnosis. 

I’ve wanted to give him his space. He’ll talk to me when he’s ready. If he needs to.

Anyway, from what I’ve been able to observe and get out of him, these are the symptoms he is experiencing: a resting tremor in his right hand and arm. Stiffness in his shoulder and neck, also on the right side, usually. Intermittent facial masking (but again, I wonder how much of that is the Parkinsonism and how much of it is him hiding what he feels, as is his MO). He’s been noticeably slower sometimes, and seemingly unaware of it, and generally, he seems—tired. Or low? His handwriting is erratic and sometimes very, very small. His gait is less fluid, and a few times I’ve found him about the house absolutely immobile, as if he’s just come to a sudden stop. He never seems particularly upset by it, but it’s looked to me as if he could not move until spurred into action by my prompting. 

He’s also had some sleep disturbance. Insomnia, fragmented sleep, and sometimes a loss of typical REM-cycle paralysis. Instead of just twitching along to his dreams, he sometimes flails, his body in action. Once I think he was playing violin. He’s fallen out of bed a few times too, and several times has awoken to cramping that I’ve massaged out of his feet and calves. He told the doctor in London that he has had blurred and/or doubled vision. 

He never told me that.

At the moment, there are no significant psychological effects to report (unless it’s just a peculiar blankness—but this IS Sherlock), nor is there any sign of cognitive impairment. Of course, those are the things I fear most, and those I suspect he won’t allow himself to consider.

It’s amazing how much of this he has explained away to himself (or deleted?) over the past months (or years?), and kept from me. I almost feel betrayed. But, in his (my?) defense, Sherlock has never been like anyone else. Perhaps he just—legitimately—thought nothing of it. Neither of us wanted to believe anything was wrong. Now I’m wondering if he knew something was wrong, or if it all just felt familiar to him. His way of being in the world. Just a thing to accept and get on with. 

I suppose it is, really.

We can never really know what it’s supposed to feel like, being alive. We only know what we know. What we feel. Sherlock’s always lived at a remove from his “transport”, except in the moments when he doesn’t. Perhaps it isn’t bothering him so much to lose its cooperation? 

I don’t know. I tried to ask him, but he just looked affronted and retreated to the potting shed. I guess I’ll let him come to me.

The neurologist, Dr. Novakova, feels that there is no point in delaying dopaminergic treatment. Conventional wisdom says it’s best to wait, the better to stave off the inevitable dyskinesia and dystonias that comes with the extended use of levodopa, but newer studies suggest that there is no evidence that using levodopa accelerates Parkinsonian pathology. I’ve done some research as well and can see no credible benefit to waiting. It’s about quality of life. Levodopa has a good chance of significantly reducing his symptoms. That said, I’m not sure how much some of them bother him. He doesn’t let on. But, the sleep disturbances worry me. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he needs his sleep.

My other fear is that he (we?) won’t know his Parkinsonian symptoms from any other garden variety ache and pain of the aged, which we are rapidly becoming. I worry that he will become anxious watching his body (or that I will), seeing pathology in everything. Part of me wonders if I’m being selfish pushing him towards immediate medication because it’s hard for me to see him like this, and it doesn’t make me feel any better that Sherlock seems to be abdicating. He says only a fool argues with his doctor.

I wish he would tell me… I don’t know what. I don’t know what I want him to tell me. I just want him to be ok. I know that’s probably 80% selfishness. If he’s not ok, I want him to tell me. God. I hate this.

_**Thursday, 13 July** _

At Dr. Novakova’s suggestion, we’re starting the process of titrating the dosage of Sherlock’s medication, which I’ll supervise in consultation with her. He’s starting with a low dose of carbidopa/levodopa, 3 times a day, and we will be slowly increasing the dose until his symptoms respond. We’re trying the controlled release tablets at night, also at starting with the lowest dosage, which might help him sleep and lessen the effect of the drugs wearing off overnight. It could take months to get the dosage right. In addition, he’ll be on a lower protein diet (aids absorption) and instituting an exercise regime – perhaps just daily walks for now, and later something prescribed by his physiotherapist, when he’s assigned one? 

I’m going to start keeping this journal in my office in town. I need to be able to record what happens and what I feel without the concern that Sherlock will read it.

I’m not sure why I feel that way, but I do.

_**Tuesday, 25 July** _

It hasn’t been a good past couple of weeks. The medication, even in a low dose, hasn’t been easy to tolerate, and Sherlock has had headaches, dizziness, and nausea in addition to his other symptoms, which haven’t responded yet. I think he was more comfortable before starting the medication, really. Nevertheless, we’re increasing the dosage, perhaps adding domperidone for the nausea. Dr. Novakova says his body will adjust. What worries me most is his almost total loss of appetite. Getting him to eat is more of a struggle than ever before.

Sherlock says he’s fine, but he’s been withdrawn and uncharacteristically passive. Depression is natural under the circumstances, and research now says it’s an integral part of Parkinsonian pathology. He hasn’t seemed sad, exactly, just... pliant, I guess. Expressionless and apathetic. It’s so unlike him. I worry that he will lose some measure of his independence to this illness, or his character, and I don’t always like my role in mediating it. I want to take care of him, but I—

I don’t know what I want. I asked him to talk to Dr. Novakova about his mood, but I don’t think he did. Doing it for him seems wrong somehow. I feel—torn. I want to help, but being his doctor—I don’t know. For now, I’m going to just keep an eye on it.

He’s so blank. I want him to be angrier, maybe. Or, sad? Anything, really.

I’m angry sometimes, and sadness is always there if I look for it these days.

_**Thursday, 28 July** _

Our neighbours, the Bensons, have offered their son Seth to help out with the garden. He’s 14 now, and a keen gardener already—an extraordinary boy. Maybe he can help keep things up while Sherlock adjusts. He’s on his summer hols, and I’ve offered to pay him a bit. He’s thrilled. Sherlock has always liked the boy. I spoke to Sherlock about it, and he seemed—pleased? 

I asked him if he was. He said, “Of course, John, why do you ask?” I told him his face was so blank it was hard to tell what he felt, and that he’d just seemed—passive. He thought about it for awhile. I left him alone. Later he came into the kitchen and put his arms around me, kissed me, and said he couldn’t explain, but that he was fine. Really fine. He asked me not to worry about him. 

I’ll try not to.

_**Thursday, 3 August** _

Wouldn’t you know it, but Sherlock has found studies that posit BEE VENOM, of all things, as having a protective benefit to dopaminergic neurons, and studies have indeed shown that it has some efficacy in reducing Parkinsonian symptoms. What are the chances?! 

Apparently, some French Parkinsonian beekeeper who’d started a course of injections of bee venom to desensitize him to being stung found that he felt better and needed less medication for the Parkinsonian symptoms with the bee-venom injections than without.

So, yes. Sherlock has stopped wearing gloves or protective clothing when managing his hives. As a result, he is stung several times a day and comes into the house with bees up his sleeves and red marks all over his hands and arms, and is just thrilled with himself about it. My new full time job is tweezing stingers out of his skin! 

He’s been to the clinic in town—yes, the one I work in, and on my DAY OFF, no less! I can’t leave him alone for a second!—to demand injections and/or acupuncture treatments with bee venom. 

Predictably, the NHS does not cover such things. 

That said, the discovery has really perked him up a bit, which is brilliant. Sherlock is a great believer in the healing power of bees, and he does love an experiment. I’m a great believer in anything that brings back the mad bugger I fell in love with. I haven’t seen him in awhile. If that’s bee venom, then I love bee venom.

It’s amazing how fond of a person it’s possible to be.

His symptoms seem to be responding to the medication now, just a bit. 

_**Tuesday, 12 September** _

I haven’t been keeping this diary up as much as I’d like to, but it’s probably because things have been good.

It’s been three months to the day since Sherlock was diagnosed, and I think we’re finally getting somewhere with the drugs. It took some time to find the right dosage. He takes one dispersible tablet (for quick absorption) in the morning (carbidopa-levodopa 25/100), two more capsules at 6 hour intervals during the day, and then a controlled release tablet overnight. He’s got some lower dose tablets as well, in case he has an especially long day or needs a top up, but he refuses to consider them. 

There were some rough days with the side effects, and he still has some shaky moments if he forgets to take his pills on time, but Sherlock seems well now. He seems more like himself again. He’s sleeping better most nights, and good sleep means better days. Mornings are a bit slow and shaky, but he’s alright once he gets going. 

The garden looks beautiful in autumn. I think it’s my favourite season. All the plants are fading and the apples are ripe and red. It’s misty and chilly in the mornings now, and the sun’s coming up later. Sherlock is always up with it. 

We’ve had the best harvest of honey in all the time we’ve been here. Sherlock managed most of it on his own, with help from Seth Benson when he can come after school. Seth’s always been fascinated by the bees and he’s always got on well with Sherlock. It’s lovely seeing them together in the garden, and Seth is really remarkable for a boy his age—he seems to actually enjoy the time he spends here with a cranky old codger—and though Sherlock will never admit it, he enjoys the company of children. 

Sherlock’s given the honey away mostly—to the neighbours. He takes jars of the stuff everywhere he goes—the post office, the baker’s, the farm shop. He even sent a few jars to Lestrade and Molly this year. Needless to say we have a lifetime supply. The shelves in his potting shed are still lined with amber jars and bars of rendered wax.

Next week they’ll apply mite treatments to the hives and feed the bees up for the winter.

Sherlock has managed to procure his bee venom cure, too. In addition to foregoing protection when managing the hives, he’s self-administering intramuscular injections of a gel suspension of freeze-dried, purified bee venom (!!), and he has an acupuncturist twice a week (sent by Mycroft, of course!) who treats him with subcutaneous bee-venom injections at acupuncture points. After about 5 weeks of this, he’s decided he wants to try lowering his dose of carbidopa-levodopa. 

Experiments! Right up his alley. 

It worries me a little, but Doctor Novakova says it’s not hurting him. He’s not allergic and she sees no harm in trying it, if that’s what he wants, though it has to be done gradually. Worst case scenario, a bad week or so. We’ll see how it goes, but I’m glad to see him taking an interest and having an opinion about his treatment. It’s such a relief to see him engaged with managing this. It was hard feeling like I was the only one thinking about it. I’m sure I wasn’t, but it felt like that.

He’s even ordered an electrical contraption from Korea to harvest venom without harming his bees, though he won’t be able to start until next spring—the hive will soon be hunkering down for the winter. He tells me he’ll also need lab space IN THE KITCHEN to purify it, isolate the apamine and make his own meds.

Brilliant. I don’t know whether I mean that sincerely or sarcastically. Both, maybe.

Just like old times. I won’t pretend I’m not delighted.

The only problem at the moment is his diet. Getting him to eat, a trial in the best of times, is still more difficult than ever. We have managed to control the nausea, but he’s just got very little appetite. Not really new. What is new, though, is that he’s lost rather a lot of weight and looks like an aging version of the Sherlock Holmes I first met—thin as a rail, all angles, but—wrinklier. He looks delicate in a way he hasn’t since that first year we spent together, and frail in a way he never has.

I was worried that he might succumb to depression, but after some downtrodden weeks, he seems to be letting me do all the worrying. He rarely talks about any of it (except the bees!) without being asked, and he seems wholly unemotional about it all. He behaves normally—tending the garden and the hives. To keep his voice limber, he’s been reading to me at night (his idea) mostly historical beekeeping manuals (his preference) or true crime books (mine!), the latter of which he generously peppers with withering disdain for their authors. His voice is stronger now with the medication, and God knows I’ve always had a soft spot for his withering disdain.

He’s also had a few visits from the physio, and has some exercises to do, which he does, faithfully, every morning and night. He seems quite willing to follow instructions, oddly. It makes me a bit uncomfortable, but maybe he’s more motivated than he lets on. We’ve taken to going on long walks in the afternoons. The countryside is beautiful here, and if we’re up for it, the sea isn’t so very far. 

Perhaps I’ll get a dog?

_**Thursday, 21 September** _

So, today something—I’m not sure whether to call it “interesting” or “disturbing” —happened. This morning I went out back to bring Sherlock a cup of tea—he was up early making preparations to feed the bees. When I came out, he was in the potting shed making notes in his beekeeping journal. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, without turning, and asked me if there was a cat in the room with us. There wasn’t. 

“I suspected not” he replied. 

He was reluctant at first to say more, but with some cajoling he admitted that he’s had a “phantom cat”—a ginger one!—that joins him in the shed some days. He says he knew it wasn’t real, but he sees it in the periphery of his vision, usually on the right side. When he turns to engage it, he remembers it isn’t really there, and it’s not. 

At first, I was very taken aback and worried, but Sherlock rightly reminded me that hallucinations are a common side-effect of dopaminergic treatment. He’s not wrong, and though it seems he is ahead of the curve in terms of having them quite early in his treatment, it’s not unheard of. A bit of reading confirms that it’s estimated that as many as 40% of Parkinsonian patients on dopaminergic treatment have them, and that they may actually be under-reported by patients, who fear the ramifications of admitting them.

It seems harmless enough—he knows it’s not real, he’s not confused—and it doesn’t frighten him, so we’ve taken it in stride. Sherlock says he rather likes having a phantom cat. Much more tolerable than a phantom hound, he says! 

If he can live with it, who am I to argue? 

_**Thursday, 19 October** _

Not much to report. Things are pretty stable. Sherlock is managing well, and seems like his old self—by which I mean the “old self” who lives with me here in the country—the one who keeps bees, tends the garden, and does a host of other things I never thought I’d see, like being friendly with the neighbours and holding hands with me on long walks. 

We’re both as happy and well as can be expected, for the most part. 

Sherlock does have times when he is slow, creaky, stiff, sore, or shaky but he bears it well. He tires easily, but he’s sleeping better, too. He’s been—more than usually—warm and affectionate. He’s eating—not much!— but it’s better. His phantom cat continues to be harmless, and he’s as sharp-minded and acerbic as ever when he wants to be. 

Dr. Novakova told us, when all this began, that with the proper management—medication, exercise, diet—Sherlock has many good years to look forward to. Even though I’m a doctor, and intellectually I knew she was right, I’m not sure either of us really believed her. But, after these past few months getting to grips with it, I’m starting to. Starting to feel lighter. 

Everyone gets older and life changes for all of us. Parkinson’s is just one of the ways that process will affect Sherlock and me. It could be worse. We’ve seen worse in the course of our lives together. All we can do is carry on. Do what we must to maintain, at whatever level we can, for as long as we can. 

I think we’re ready to do that.


	3. The Marshes

Six months after his diagnosis, Sherlock wakes early on a cold December morning, curled up at the edge of the bed, a bit cold. John is snoring softly—on his back then—behind him. They often drift apart in the night. It used to bother Sherlock that they didn’t wake up as they went to sleep—pressed against each other—but it doesn’t anymore. He knows John is there, warm and willing, and just a touch away.

Testing that theory, he pushes a foot back and hooks it gently under John’s ankle, rubs his toes against the textures there—the hair on John’s leg, the callus on his heel. John’s breathing changes as he responds, sleep heavy and clumsy. Automatic. Without waking, but with a deep murmur, he turns over to press his chest against Sherlock’s back, his groin against Sherlock’s arse, his thighs against the backs of Sherlock’s thighs, one of his feet between Sherlock’s ankles, and then crooks one arm over Sherlock’s waist. Proof. Sherlock takes John’s limp but compliant hand and presses it to his chest, closing his eyes as John nuzzles closer, his cheek between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his nascent overnight beard rough and perfect against Sherlock’s skin. 

It takes Sherlock several drowsy minutes to remember what he now remembers every morning: that everything is different now—that _he_ is different, and will never be the same. Even though it has never not been so, he’s more aware than ever of faring forward in an increasingly faulty vessel, towards an inevitable terminus, and as it is every morning, the idea is painful—a strange dissonance when he is so happy. He thinks of his garden, his bees. John. He thinks how strange it is that love and loss are such inevitable bedfellows, because for this moment, lying in bed with John, still and warm in John's arms, Sherlock feels alive and well, and perfectly normal. Perfectly like himself. 

Almost.

When he moves to sit up, he is confronted by all the (now familiar) reminders: his neck and shoulder on the right side are rigid and immobile, his right arm numb and heavy as stone, and at the same time, fizzing with the strange energy of his condition. After a few moments, he pushes himself up, slowly and carefully, trying not to wake John, and yes—he finds that he is stiff and trembling. It’s an effort to roll his shoulders back and lift his chest and head. His neck is stiff, and won’t turn to the right without pain. The fingers on his right hand are trembling and jumping where they rest—beyond his control. He can feel the peculiar buzz of his tremor through his elbow and all the way up to his shoulder. 

On the bedside table, there’s a glass of water next to a plate with a single water biscuit and one small, pale yellow tablet—left by John, just as it is every night. 

John. 

Sherlock looks down at his sleeping partner. John’s forehead is now pressed against his naked left hip, his breath warm and humid against Sherlock’s flank, and Sherlock remembers another thing. He loves this time of day. Loves the quiet, solitary morning, when his emotion towards John can simply be, without an audience, and without the pressure of expression. He runs the fingers of his steadier left hand through soft, silvering hair at John’s temple, feels the pulse there—feels grateful. Sherlock likes being alone, and while John’s incoherent, sleepy mumble and the huff of his breath against Sherlock’s skin makes him feel loved, raises gooseflesh and the familiar warming throb of vascular sexual response, it demands nothing of him in return. Sherlock smiles down at John and then, sobers. John who has never been lucky in his choice of companionship. John who must now watch him degenerate.

He leans back against the headboard and watches his trembling hand where it rests on the duvet, realising that he’d not thought of his body simply as “transport” in a long time. John had changed that with his hands, his breath against Sherlock’s skin… but now? What is it now, if not transport? 

The thought is surprisingly comforting. 

In the months before his diagnosis, the growing disconnect between his body and mind had been deeply unsettling and almost repulsive, but he’s surprised to find that that’s changing. Now it’s just oddly fascinating. Sherlock knows that his detachment and the curious neutrality with which he approaches his own condition causes John consternation, but he’s come to almost enjoy his body’s process of separating itself from his mind. He loves observing as the drug takes effect, feeling it bring his physicality into phase with his will—watching and feeling himself tremble and then gradually still, flexing his disobedient fingers and feeling them obey again.

When he was diagnosed, Sherlock had felt numbly bewildered. Betrayed by his own flesh. Now, he feels prickly and over-sensitive, like a waking limb—it’s become familiar, but it’s not boring. He’s spent the latter part of the summer and the autumn acclimating to the drugs, the way John watches him, the way other people watch him, the relentless fatigue. Finally, having gained a measure of control over it with the help of the drugs, he’s begun to fall back into a rhythm of his own, changed now, but not unpleasant—his garden, his bees, walks with John, quiet evenings in the garret, listening to John map the stars. The thing he misses is his violin. The tremor and stiffness have made his playing less fluid. Less satisfying. He hasn’t played in months.

Meanwhile, he’s watched John go from slumped, poorly masked misery, to anxious solicitude, through amused concern, and finally back to something that more or less resembles the past several years of their lives together—existing side by side, being what they are to each other—what they have been to each other for many years now—without a lot of fuss. John has always been steady and boundlessly patient, and as always, John anchors and steadies him. Sherlock needs it now, more than ever, but he can’t help wondering what he gives John. Something to worry about, perhaps?

It seems an uneven trade.

After a long moment, Sherlock reaches over, turning at the waist to bring his left arm over the stiff right side of his body to drop the tablet into the water. He watches it dissolve, swishes the water around in the glass, raises it to his lips and knocks it back, then eats the biscuit. It will take time for the dopamine to control his tremor, and the biscuit will help settle his stomach. Sherlock has found it’s best if he just waits it out right where he is while the drug does its work.

When he feels looser and steadier he gets up, careful not to wake John. He puts his palms on the edge of the bed and steps back to bend at the waist and stretch his shoulders and back. Then, he dresses and makes his way down the narrow staircase, through the quiet house, and goes out into dim early morning light. The garden is misty and cold, a layer of frost defining the blades of grass in silvery green. He shivers and looks up at the gun-metal grey sky as he does up his jacket and wraps first his scarf, and then his long arms around himself before stepping into the gravelled path.

At the back, near the now quiet hives, he’s got a comfortable little potting shed that he and John have insulated and now doubles as his workspace. An alone place. A place for thinking. John had installed a cast iron, wood-burning stove there, and Sherlock had commandeered John’s old military issue canvas camp bed and set it up along one wall. There’s a workbench on the other, under a bank of dusty windows, and above them, a shelf—a few notebooks, his old skull, beekeeping and gardening references, guides to local birds and wildflowers, and a few sheaves of paper, all bookended by jars of amber honey, and all contributing to a comforting sort of disorder.

The stove is still warm from yesterday’s fire—a few coals still alive under the ash. He feeds it and coaxes it back to life, blowing into the grate and rubbing his hands together, his breath white on the wintry air. Then, he sits at his workbench on a tall stool, pulling down his beekeeping journal and the manuscript he’s editing—a monograph on the effects of bee venom on his Parkinson’s. 

More than an hour passes in what feels like a blink. Feeling John’s presence in the doorway, Sherlock looks up from his work, turns and smiles, but… John isn’t there. Strange. He was so sure. Sherlock peers out of his now steam fogged windows at the house and loosens his muffler. The kitchen lights are on, glowing warmly in the blue morning light. John is up, then, but not here. Sherlock returns to his work and 10 minutes later John does materialise with a steaming mug of builder’s tea, strong and sweet, and a plate of toast slathered in butter and marmalade. Clean-shaven now, and handsome as always in his particular, weathered way.

“I’m going in to the surgery for a few hours. You alright?” he asks, answering Sherlock’s smile with his own, kissing him lightly and picking up yesterday’s dirty dishes from the workbench, his eyes warm. “Need anything?”

“No,” Sherlock answers, accepting the tea, brushing cool, white fingers over John’s warm ones. John puts the toast down next to it and raises his eyebrows implicatively. Sherlock confirms with a look that he will eat it.

“I’ve left a ploughman’s in the refrigerator for you, too… and there’s soup in the pot on the hob. Is that my jumper?” 

“Mm.” Sherlock answers, turning back to his work. He nearly suppresses his smile.

John looks pleased. “Seth will be by today. He’s home on his winter hols. Have you got anything for him to do? He’s keen to see you.”

“Yes.” Sherlock gestures towards three heavy rolls of black plastic sheeting. He’s got plans to kill off the grass in their back half acre and plant perennial meadow flowers—perfect for the chalky soil, better for the bees. The first step is stopping the sunlight reaching the ground to stop the lawn growing. In the early Spring he’ll cut what’s left as close to the ground as he can and seed— _Centaurea nigra, Dactylorhiza fuchsii, Anthemis arvensis, Agrostemma githago, Primula veris, Succisa pratensis, Viola arvensis, Filipendula ulmaria, Ranunculus acris, Prunella vulgaris, Leontodon hispidus, Geranium pratense, Reseda lutea_... 

“Meet me at the surgery? Around two?” John asks.

 _Agrimonia eupatoria, Glebionis segetum, Campanula rotundifolia_...

Sherlock looks back at John and nods his assent. John smiles at his distraction.

On days when John works in the local surgery, Sherlock meets him there and they strike out, sometimes south over the downs towards the sea, and other times into the forest at the southeastern edge of the town—Beech and Hornbeam, dormouse and deer. Sherlock likes it there. Daily walks are part of his new regime—doctors’ orders—and if he’s honest, he likes them. 

“Don’t forget to eat, Sherlock,” John says seriously, looking out from under unruly, knitted brows, “and do your exercises, too.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replies neutrally, his commitment to eating unclear. He doesn’t look up. John leans in to kiss him again, exasperated but fond. 

“See you later.”

Sherlock looks up after him as he heads back across the garden.

+++

Sherlock arrives at the surgery around 2:45, a little late for having taken a nap on his camp bed after Seth had gone. John’s standing in the vestibule when he arrives, talking to a man Sherlock has seen around town: Josiah Amberley. Amberley’s left hand and arm are wrapped in clean gauze to just below the elbow. Sherlock takes him in: late sixties, grey hair, unkempt and swept back from a high forehead, sparsely bearded. He’s tall, but stooped, and with a downtrodden look. Large hands and feet. A once handsome face, now deeply lined—older than his years—a prominently bridged aquiline nose, square jaw, and deep set, bruised looking sharp grey eyes. 

He turns those eyes appraisingly on Sherlock when he comes in, and smiles in a tight, perfunctory way. 

John’s smile is warmer. “Oh, Sherl— I was just wondering…”

“Nap.” Sherlock replies.

John nods. Smiles. “Mr. Amberley’s just been telling me…”

“Walk, John.” Sherlock says, and nods curtly to Mr. Amberley, turning back towards the door. He’ll wait outside.

After a few moments, John emerges in his worn Barbour coat. They walk in silence awhile. John’s silence—his _waiting_ —is palpable. Once they’ve got to the edge of the town and turned down off the road towards the wood, he turns to Sherlock. 

“That was quite rude, wasn’t it? Do you know Mr. Amberley?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a moment, and then he does. “It’s a small town, John. Artist. Retired. Lives on the old hops farm with the Oast kilns at the southern edge of the village. Gay. Much younger lover…” 

Sherlock considers. 

“Ex-lover, I’d say, going by his thwarted, futile air. And his slovenly appearance, of course. Blind in his left eye. No, I don’t know him.”

They’ve walked over a fallow, wintering field and climbed over the style into the Beech wood now. Sherlock is gazing up through bare branches at a close, grey sky.

John is thoughtful. Finally: “You’re perfectly right, of course. About everything. His lover did leave him—just last night. He suspects Dr. Ernest. They played chess together—he and Amberley.” 

Sherlock says nothing, and John continues.

“He came into the clinic this morning with a pretty nasty burn on his forearm. How did you know about the eye?”

“Pupil. Fully dilated.” Sherlocks says, very softly. “And the way he turned his head and shoulders to look at me. Fully. From the trunk.” Sherlock slows. Stops. “So, he came in with a burn and told you all his troubles? You aren’t friends. I suppose there’s something he wants?”

“Yes,” John says looking at Sherlock, who has come to a stop in front of the silvery trunk of a hornbeam, “He wants you to look into the disappearance of his lover—Brent. Says some of his art work and money is gone, too. Says he kept it in his studio in one of the old kilns.”

“No.” Sherlock says. 

John touches Sherlock’s wrist, prompts him back into motion. 

“‘No’ you won’t look into it, or ‘No’ he didn’t keep it there?” 

Sherlock looks nettled. “I won’t do it. Really, John, how should I know where he keeps things in his house?”

Ridiculous!

They walk on in silence for a time. The woods are quiet and damp, and and it’s the kind of cold that seeps in, under the skin. John notices that Sherlock’s fingers are trembling, and takes Sherlock’s hand in his, squeezing it, lacing his finger through Sherlock’s. He pulls Sherlock up short to face him. 

“Why not? You’re as sharp as ever. Might be a good…”

“A fickle friend and a treacherous, youthful lover? An old story, John, and a boring one. Amberley’s a fool. I’ve got too much on. My paper, the garden…” And, after a pause, looking down at their joined hands, his own fingers trembling not with cold, but with pathology, adds softly, “I’m not interested. I’m not the man I was.” 

“Sherl—”

“No, John. Don’t. If you’re so keen, you look into it,” Sherlock says, turning away. “I should start at the old farm.” 

John turns back to face down the path, and they walk on for awhile in silence, hand in hand. Their breath rising frosty in the cold air. 

“Alright,” John says at last, smiling faintly to himself, “I’ll go.”


	4. John Watson's Journal 4nd December - 6th December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case!

**4 December**

So, we have a case. 

Or, actually, at the moment, it might be more accurate to say that I have one. Sherlock thinks himself unequal to the challenge and refuses to admit that he’s interested. I know better on both counts. The fact that he’s sent me to look into it—and not only that, told me where to start!—gives him away. I’m looking forward to seeing how long he can hold out before taking over, as imperiously as ever.

Sherlock’s been well lately, all things considered. He’s eating a bit more, and he’s been in good spirits. He plays it all very close to the vest, but I think he’s come to terms with things as they are and seems to have it all well in hand. He’s deep into his own personal clinical trial with his bee venom therapy, and I have to admit, there does seem to be something to it. He’s been able to reduce his dosage of Carpidopa/Levodopa just a bit, to no ill effect, and has plans to reduce it further. I’m eager to see what happens, and less afraid of setbacks. Weirdly, I think setbacks would interest him as much as success, and that’s… fine, I guess. What he needs most is to be… engaged.

So, in short, he’s as usual. He keeps himself busy. Big plans for the back half acre, and hours of business everyday in his potting shed. He reads a lot. In the evenings, he sits with me in my study half listening to me go on about the stars, half in his own world, or we watch telly together, me wedged into the corner of the sofa and him draped over the rest of it, his head or feet in my lap. He’s been warm and affectionate. I’m happy to report that after an initial slow-down following his diagnosis, our sex life is much as it has ever been, since we fell into being quiet old codgers in the countryside who sometimes feel their age. That is to say, perfectly satisfying, if less fevered and frequent than it once was. 

That’s ok. That’s the way of things. There’s nothing about him I’d trade.

The only real loss, it appears, is his music. He hasn’t played the violin in months, at least not when I’ve been in the house. And, sometimes his higher spirits. He’s still a bit blank and can seem… oh, I don’t know… a bit fatalistic sometimes. I don’t think he’s terribly depressed—he’s busy, engaged in his projects and active—perhaps it’s the Parkinson’s that makes his face so emotionless sometimes. Still, his refusal of this case is something I can’t help but see as a kind of disturbing resignation. 

He told me as much in the wood yesterday—“I’m not the man I was.” To that I say “Thank God!” and no one is the “man he was.” I need Sherlock to see the man he is.

Anyway, I’ll go see Amberley first thing tomorrow morning. See if I can’t lure Sherlock in. 

A case is just the thing. There hasn’t been one in ages.

+++

**5 December**

It was late afternoon before I finally returned from the old Oast farm and my meeting with Mr. Amberley. To be fair, though, I did spend a rather lazy morning at home first. Sherlock stayed in bed well past dawn for a change, and I could have sworn he was trying to keep me too busy to leave. Not that I’m complaining, mind you! Finally, though, he’d got up, and I left him at the kitchen table, bent over a taxonomy of British wildflowers, next to a tepid and untouched cup of tea. He barely acknowledged my departure. I thought he was back in his world of green and growing things, and I took no notice of it.

His state when I got home, though, told a different story. I found him in quite changed— lying on the sofa, twitchy with tremor, stiff and sullen, alert but idle, the house dark and chill around him. It didn’t take a genius for deduction to see that he hadn’t taken his medication, or to guess that his lunch would be untouched in the refrigerator.

So… Noted. With some prejudice, I must admit.

I was a bit… I’m almost ashamed to admit it now, but I was angry. Why would he do this to himself? If I’m honest, I felt like he had done it to me, so we could both suffer. So selfish and idiotic. I’m sorry to say I let him see it. Without speaking and with little kindness, I gave him a dispersible tablet, a cup of tea and some toast and sat opposite him in my chair. I was loathe to throw him a bone, and I thought it might be more effective to appear disinterested. Let him ask me. I opened the paper and played hard-to-get while he recovered from a long day of not taking care of himself. 

On reflection, perhaps I was a bit cruel. After all, it must have been hard for him to feel… out of it all. Anyway, after visibly stewing at my refusal to offer up any information, he finally exploded with frustration.

“You obviously want me to ask. So, come on. Tell me,” he snapped, snappishly.

I can’t deny that it warmed me.

“Tell you?” (I couldn’t resist!) “About what?”

To that, he merely glowered. It was adorable. I have missed this!

“Oh, Amberley?” 

He rolled his eyes and glared, and at last I relented and told him my tale. 

I’d arrived at Amberley’s at about 11:15 this morning and noted that his house, once the seat of a flourishing hops farm for the production of a fine local brew (but now fallow), was called “Haven Farm”. The neighborhood was much like the rest of the village, but his house itself, unlike any others in the vicinity, was surrounded by high, crumbling stone wall covered in lichens and mosses, and an even higher Hawthorn hedge, thorny and twisted, and it must be said—ill cared for.

“Come on, John! What do I care how he keeps his hedge! Cut out the nonsense and tell me what happened with Amberley!”

It was working. I smiled and continued.

Outside the gate, I’d met a man—tall, and thin as a youth, but with long grey hair and a scraggly beard and keen, ageless hazel eyes and worn red trainers. I asked him if the gate led to the main house and he nodded, looking at me quite searchingly. At this, Sherlock looked impatient again, and I told him to hear me out. I had a reason for mentioning the old man.

I rounded the gate to find Amberley coming down the gravel drive towards me, looking very ill and careworn indeed.

“How so?” Sherlock asked. flexing his neck and massaging his right shoulder with his left hand. He was obviously curious now. His face was a mask, but his eyes keen.

“Well, bent, really. Burdened.” I replied. “And, out of breath, like he’d been carrying a heavy load.”

I went on. I told Sherlock that I’d been struck by Amberley’s size and strength, something I’d never really noticed before in his visits to the surgery. His expression was fierce and eager and gave his whole presence a kind of aggressive rapaciousness. I also noted that his garden was absolutely untouched and gave one the overwhelming impression of neglect. The house itself, with its wonderful rounded Oast towers—a fine example of the vernacular architecture of this part of the country—was sadly ramshackle and as unkempt as the man himself. 

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock pressed, growing ever more impatient with every word of description. “What did he say?” 

I was really getting somewhere now! 

By this time, Sherlock was sat up on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, hands folded together under his chin. His right hand and arm still shook a bit, but he paid it no mind. I told him that the very first thing Amberley had said was that he was terribly disappointed that his troubles didn’t seem important enough to warrant “the personal attention of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock scoffed in dismissive frustration and threw himself back into the cushions of the sofa. 

Despairing, I think, that I would ever get to the meat of the thing. 

Perfect. 

Then, I told him, Amberley poured out his tale of woe for the better part of two hours.

Highlights? After a somewhat storied career as an artist in London with the high, fast lifestyle that accompanied it, he had fallen in love with Brent, a handsome, much younger lad who held court as a barkeep in the Shade Lounge, a members-only SoHo boys club with an exclusive clientele. From what I gather, Amberley’s name and bank account were particularly appealing to Brent, who basically became a kept man. For a while, they’d lived a high life in London—fashion shows, drugs, parties, and God knows what else, but Amberley had wearied of all that. At his insistence, they’d moved to the farm in May. Amberley set up a new studio and archive space in one of the old Oast kilns, and planned to live a quiet, less profligate life with his lover in the country. Perhaps get back to his painting.

Needless to say, there were early signs that this idyllic quiet country life did not suit a young scenester with Brent’s appetites for stimulation of all kinds. Amberley stubbornly refused to acknowledge Brent’s boredom, which he saw as “black ingratitude”, and did little to allay his discontent. They often argued about money; Amberley says he felt like a cash machine and Brent, he says, complained of being trapped. 

“Oh for God’s sake, John. This is a tawdry and entirely obvious story. Must you tell it in such mind-numbing detail?” Sherlock interrupted. “What was the idiot doing when you arrived? What did you see? Did you collect any data of any use whatsoever?” 

Ah ha. There he was. Rude as ever. God, I love him. 

Amberley had been re-painting the lintels of his studio and archival strong room when I arrived, I told Sherlock. A strange activity, in light of recent events, and strange too that he was using an oil-based paint when there are so many less malodorous, and every bit as durable, acrylic options nowadays. He showed me the strong-room. He’d kept some of his more valuable work in it, along with a shocking amount of cash—he said it was for emergencies—which, along with the paintings, were stolen the night Brent disappeared.

Sherlock looked thoughtful. 

“And what happened that night?” he prompted.

Amberley and Brent had spent that afternoon in the pub, in the company of Dr Ernest— Sherlock knows him—the young doctor who works with me at the local surgery on Mondays and Wednesdays. Brent struck up the friendship with him, apparently. Ernest and Amberley were both keen chess players, but Amberley thinks it was all just a cover for the affair Brent and Ernest were having under his nose. That evening, Amberley and Brent had tickets to see the panto in Eastbourne at the old theatre. He showed me the tickets—but Brent complained of a migraine, and decided to stay home at the last minute.

“Did you happen to make note of the seat numbers?” Sherlock pressed, avid now.

“I did, actually,” I told him, well pleased with myself indeed! But, they were memorable— seats 21 and 22, row b. Of course I thought of Baker Street.

“Anything else?” Sherlock asked, ignoring my sentimentality. He was distant now, in a familiar and entirely gratifying way—in his own mind, his wheels spinning.

“Well, obviously, Amberley thinks Ernest seduced Brent away from him and that they’ve run off together with the money and valuables. The very thought seemed to drive him into a fury. He tore up a picture of he and Brent together at an opening in London, and raged that he never wanted to see the bastard again. He told me that if he ever saw Ernest again, he’d not be responsible for his actions. 

"Oh, and also! Remember the tall man I met outside? Well, as I was turning into our gate, I saw him again in the lane! I’m sure he was following me!"

“Mm. No doubt,” Sherlock replied sagely, and I thought, with a hint of humour. “A tall, slender man in red trainers and a brown barn jacket?”

“He was wearing a brown barn jacket! How could you know that? I never mentioned it!” 

“Yes, yes.” He he said, thoughtful now… and suspiciously evasive, “Very interesting, John. This seemed at first like a quite tedious tale, but now it seems rather interesting indeed. You’ve missed absolutely everything, of course but…”

Oh, nevermind the barn jacket! I was loving this. Of course I missed everything! I played the game:

“Ok then, Sherlock Holmes. What have I missed?” I hoped he couldn’t read the pleasure in my voice. I made every effort to sound affronted.

“Oh, John. Just, everything!” Sherlock sighed, beaming like a child and reaching for me with his right hand, which was perfectly steady now. I rose from my chair and joined him on the sofa. 

“As ever, John, you see, but you don’t observe.” He was playing now. Teasing me. I schooled my expression. Tried to look cross. I could see it in his eyes that I hadn’t succeeded—they went warmer and darker at the same time. 

“No one else could have done better,” he consoled me, his fingers playing along the seam of my trousers at my hip. “But, did you talk to the neighbours?” he asked, “What were their opinions of Amberley and his young lover? What about the barkeep at the pub? Was Dr. Ernest the gay Lothario you’ve been led to believe? I would have thought, John, that you would at least have spoken to the barkeep. With your…” Sherlock cast his eyes down to my lap and then up into mine from under his lashes, “...natural advantages, I can imagine you whispering some soft nothings and getting some…” his hand stole into my lap to palm me through my trousers, “...hard somethings in return. You seem to have left quite a lot undone, John.” 

Shameless! And, wonderful. I put my hand over his, laced our fingers together and pressed his palm against my own burgeoning interest.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock. Everyone in this town knows I belong to you. And, it’s nothing I can’t still do. Right this moment, if you like...” I added. “It’s not too late...” 

I leant over to catch his lips with mine.

“Of course,” he breathed in reply, “but not right this moment, John, surely,” he said, wrapping his fingers around me through my trousers and squeezing. “Surely you can think of a better way to spend the evening?”

Reader, I could.

+++

**6 December**

Well, that went better than I ever imagined it would! I won’t go into detail. Suffice it to say that Sherlock took the initiative in ways he hasn’t done in a long while. 

I’d say I’m too old for this, but I’m absolutely not—though I am feeling it this morning. 

Apparently, not so for Sherlock, though. he’s gone! On the case! 

I woke up early, but he was earlier still. I looked out into the garden to see his potting shed dark, and in the kitchen, I found a half finished cup of tea, as well as the undeniable evidence of a soft-boiled egg and toast.

Next to it, there was a note in his spidery handwriting, which I noted was steady, entirely legible, and perfectly normal in size:

> _Dear John— There are one or two points of contact which I should like to establish with Mr. Josiah Amberley. When I have done so, we can dismiss the case… or not. I’ll be back today around 15:00. I may want you then. Or always.  
>  —yours, Sherlock_

Excellent. 

Now, if only I could stop worrying about him!


	5. Crocodiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a case, a lot of anxiety, and a saving grace.

Some 28 hours after leading John to bed, Sherlock finds himself there again, this time tremulous and stiff, wakeful and restless, cold, wracked with fears and misgivings, and… alone. Alone in their bed for the first time in… Years? Could it be years?

Yes. 

And why? Sherlock can find no reason that makes any sense, so it must be that, as always, he is not a detective; he is a contemptible, vain, ridiculous peacock. A drama queen. A broken, rapidly degenerating idiot. Why? Because now John is hours away, stranded in a one pub village with a broken-down car, probably sharing a room with a murderer.

It had all started so promisingly. He’d woken that morning a little before 4:00am after just a few hours of greedy, dreamless sleep. He’d felt grounded, boneless, and pleasantly sore. He’d woken to find John pressed against him, his head on Sherlock’s left shoulder, snoring gently, his humid breath ghosting gently over Sherlock’s skin, one leg cast over Sherlock’s thigh, and one arm a dead weight across Sherlock’s chest, pinning him down. Lovely. 

Sherlock had lain awake for a time, unwilling to move, breathing in John’s animal warmth, his mind racing ahead into the day and onto the case, a sense of energetic purpose sputtering to life, swelling and rising inside of him. It felt… good? Disquieting? Both familiar and unfamiliar: like nothing so much as an old friend one hasn’t seen in long enough that you wonder if you really know them anymore… wonder if you really are still friends after so long.

Not entirely good, but... Not boring?

The first order of business, obviously, was checking Amberley’s alibi. Clever John, to remember the seat numbers on the panto tickets! Armed thus, Sherlock could easily check Amberley’s story—a solo evening at the panto? Risible! If his alibi was false (and it was bound to be, wasn’t it? Why would a contemporary artist and his youthful London scenester boytoy imagine that an evening of amatuer theatricals at the local panto would be anything but torture? Really, it was as if the man were flaunting his guilt!), this case was only a matter of finding out how Amberley had killed Brent and Ernest, and where he’d hidden the bodies. 

If his alibi was solid, Sherlock would be very, very surprised indeed.

Second? Seth. The boy was following John—that much was obvious—and in disguise, too! He hadn’t known Seth had had it in him! What possible reason could he have for doing it? And, how had he known that John would be at Haven Farm? Had he known? 

Perhaps not. Interesting. 

Could he enlist the boy as an assistant? Was it right to involve the child? Maybe not. But, if he followed…? Sherlock had resolved to confront and recruit him. He had wanted someone to... accompany him. And, it couldn’t be John. He didn’t want John along. Not this time. This one he needed to solve on his own. Prove he still could. 

No, John had to be… got rid of.

So, he’d taken his medication, stretched and done his exercises, and he’d eaten—he’d made sure to leave a clear record of his having eaten on the table; it would please John, and make him less likely to worry or follow—and, he’d made an ostentatious show of his own departure, loitering about in the front garden for what felt like an eternity, (were those buds? On the Wintersweet? _Chimonanthus praecox grandiflora_. After all these years?). He’d waited to see curtains flicker at Seth’s window, giving the boy time to dress and follow. Finally, he’d wrapped up warm against the early morning chill, and set out. He felt a bit shaky and apprehensive, but perhaps the shaking was just the cold. 

Too soon to think it was anything else. 

Hard to tell, sometimes. 

As he hadn’t driven since the diagnosis, Sherlock had decided that the bus was best. Anyway, he fancied a walk. Sometimes the forward motion helped him; kept him moving forward. Inertia. He set a brisk pace. It was cold, and the power of his meds was fresh in his veins. The boy could keep up. He’d caught the 7:15 to Eastbourne.

So far, so good.

It hadn’t been until Sherlock was rattling along on the bus that he’d thought of being… well, rattled. Could he do this? Could he really? 

He could not deny to himself that he’d been afraid. He’d spent months coming to terms with the reality that his body was failing. That his mind was failing his body. He’d spent months shaking and freezing and feeling numb and tired and trying to... 

Nevermind! Everyone’s body fails in the end! Everyone is degenerating!

He’d found a kind of peace with it by sinking more deeply into the arms of his routine, his garden, his wintering bees, and his life with John—all comfortable and well-worn. He’d occupied himself with the mysteries of his industrious hives, the continuous—miraculous!—renewal of the garden. His experiments with bee venom had been a satisfying addition. Yes. The bees were his work now. He was, after years of turmoil, a creature of habit and warmth, living a gentler more generous kind of life… Lazy! Old! Devolving. He felt… guilty. His darker more thrilling days called to him as if they were (or were supposed to be?) his truth. His calling. 

Wasn’t that who he was? Should be? Is he lost?

Sherlock turns over in bed. Squeezes his hands into fists. Wills the left one to stop. Blinks into the darkness. Cold. Filled with nameless dread. 

Not nameless. 

John.

In the past months, Sherlock had often thought of John’s likening his Parkinsonian symptoms to the gravitational lensing that reveals the invisible, all-consuming, inevitable density of a singularity lurking in space. An inescapable disruption from which nothing, not even light, can escape. A black hole in the universe that warps everything in it’s orbit. Sherlock has never had much patience for poetics or for metaphors, especially not scientific ones. Sentimental nonsense! But, the image has lodged itself in his mind, and Sherlock realises that he sees crime this way—as a heavy blackness that shapes the space around it, distorting and reordering the world, warping it to allow him his perceptions and observations—letting him deduce. The density of crime made him what he was. Dark matter.

Ironic, then, that what causes the physical complaint that warps him now is the depletion of neurons in the part of his brain called the Substantia Nigra. Perhaps, he sometimes thinks (when he’s feeling contemptibly sorry for himself), his life immersed in crime consumed them and left him shaking and weak, hallucinating and depleted. Ridiculous! But, here he is again, immersing himself in crime, and this crime itself disgusts and terrifies him. A man so twisted and desperate that he could kill his lover before he could lose him? When Sherlock thinks of it—really thinks—he can almost hear his tremor, as if it were a sound, building and buzzing in his head.

Sherlock thinks about losing John. All the time. 

But, rattling along on the bus, he’d been mercifully focused on more mundane anxieties. He’d wondered if he’d brought enough pills to get him through the day with a scrap of his dignity intact. He’d wondered if his shaking and stooping and freezing would make him look feeble, or if people who saw him would be disgusted by it, and pity him. He’d concluded that of course they would, and that after all, he WAS feeble. 

As if by way of accompaniment to those thoughts, he’d begun to wonder if it was the bus that was rattling, or him, and to feel the pricklingly familiar companionship of his pathological muscles and nerves. His shoulder and neck were slowly hardening, he could feel the beginnings of a physical dissonance in his elbow and wrist, and an unwelcome, familiar ache in his hip, that was a little worse than usual after an active night and an early morning. It was all coming on a little more quickly than usual after taking his dose. He'd brought the small dose tablets along, just in case.

It had been comforting, then, to remember that Seth was just behind him, unnaturally silent. The boy was practically holding his breath.

“Seth,” Sherlock had said without turning around, “why don’t you come and sit beside me.” 

At this, the boy had gasped, and then, abashed, he’d slid out of his seat to come forward, pulling off his scraggly grey beard and doffing his cap to fall heavily into the seat next to Sherlock’s, his hands twisting the gray mess of the beard in his lap, his eyes downcast.

“What’s this about, then?” Sherlock had asked.

“I just wanted to help,” he’d replied, hesitant. Crestfallen. “I heard Mr. Amberley talking about Brent at the pub, saying he was going to consult you. I wanted to…” He trailed off, reddening. “And then I saw Dr. Watson at his farm and I…”

“You’ve read John’s blog, haven’t you.” 

At this, the boy had just let out a miserable, despairing breath, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eye. So that was it. 

“Help you shall, Seth,” he’d said after a moment, as kindly as he could. “I’m for Eastbourne to check Amberley’s alibi. I’ll need someone… for the legwork.”

At that, Seth had brightened up, and to be perfectly truthful with himself, Sherlock had felt… relieved. Heartened. It had been… pleasant to have someone to… perform to. To be admired by someone who… Wasn’t John? Was John’s admiration so cheap? Did John even admire him anymore? How could Seth’s ignorant hero worship be more desirable? And, why was Sherlock asking himself these confounded, ridiculous questions? Is this what he had become? 

Stop!

Sherlock shivers in bed, rolls over and presses his tremoring left hand under the pillow with the weight of his head. Pulls the cold duvet tighter around his shoulders. The bed feels very empty, and all he wants is to be unconscious. He closes his eyes. Wills himself into oblivion. 

It doesn’t come.

Sherlock and Seth had made a good team. They’d made short work of the so-called alibi. The Eastbourne amateur theatrical society had photographs of the theatre on the evening Amberley claimed to have been there, and there was no sign of him. There’d been a woman and a teenaged girl in the seats that matched his tickets. They knew her at the theatre—a regular attendee and sometime participant. Sherlock had sent Seth to speak to her, and the boy soon returned to confirm that she’d been there to watch her neighbour’s performance, and had only taken Amberley’s seats when it had become clear the real ticket holder wasn’t going to turn up.

So, Amberley was the murderer, then. Easily solved. Bit of a disappointment, really... that it had been so obvious. Anyone could have solved it. Sherlock was nothing special, and he was tiring. He’d begun to stoop. He was slowing down.

Seth, on the other hand, had been beside himself. He’d paced excitedly, his long arms and legs charged with colt-like, ungainly energy. “What next?” he’d urged, punctuating his excitement with sharp elbows, hands on hips. “Where to now? Is Mr. Amberley the killer? Mr. Holmes, is he? Should we call the police?” He’d been jumping out of his own skin, his eyes shining and avid. Just a boy… just a boy. So much energy!

The boy’s energy fueled him—took him out of himself. Swept him along. Maybe something to eat would help. More medication. Yes. 

“No police. Not yet. No proof! We need to get rid of Amberley,” he’d said to Seth. “We need to search his farm.” And, he’d thought, John would have to accompany Amberley to make sure he didn’t turn back, and to warn Sherlock if he did, but… He couldn’t know. John wouldn’t go if he knew. 

So, Sherlock and Seth had found a pub—a little grimy, maybe, but suitable—and made a plan: a faked email from the doctor in Bells Yew Green—just far enough away!—writing to say that he had in his possession a sealed a letter for Amberley from Dr. Ernest, and then a bit of sabotage. Amberley would bring the letter to show John and him, and Sherlock would insist he and John go in person to investigate. 

“But Sherlock,” Seth had asked, “Why would he show you? Wouldn’t he just go kill the doctor?” 

The boy’s imagination was lurid, but he was right. The man was a killer. 

In the end, they’d decided to address the e-mail to Sherlock himself. Make it sound like Dr. Ernest had predicted that something might happen to him.

“You’re famous, Mr. Holmes! It’ll make sense!” Seth had urged, his young face bright with enthusiasm. 

“Dear Mr. Holmes,” they’d begun,

> I have in my possession two sealed letters from my colleague, Dr. Andrew Ernest, whom I have been told has gone missing, one for you, sir, and one for Mr. Josiah Amberley. I was instructed to give them to you and Mr. Amberley, only in person, and only if something were to happen to him. I hope I am not in error in contacting you now. Please come to see me as soon as is convenient for you at…

As for the sabotage, Seth had cut most of the way through the serpentine belt in John and Sherlock’s Volvo with his penknife. The car would run, but after the belt inevitably snapped, the power steering would give out, and together with the consequent drain of the car’s computer on the battery, it wouldn’t last long. When they stopped to talk to the doctor, it wouldn’t start again. There wouldn’t be any real damage to the engine, and the repair would be straightforward and not terribly expensive, but there was a good chance John and Amberley would be stranded overnight, waiting for the right part. 

Perfect.

Amberley resisted of course, but Sherlock had known he could count on John. 

“Absurd!” Amberley had said when Sherlock told him he had to go, “Who is this person? What can he possibly know of our affairs?” 

But John, old faithful John, had impressed upon their client that it would make the worst possible impression on the police, and indeed, upon us, should he refuse to follow up so important a lead. There’d been a charade of a phone call in which Sherlock asked their imaginary correspondent to give his letter to John, as he was too unwell to travel, and finally, Amberley had acquiesced and stalked out of the house. John had kissed Sherlock and smiled, and then driven away with a murderer.

Oh, god. What an idiot he was!

Amberley and John set out at about 16:00, Sherlock texted John with strict instructions to inform him when they were on the way home, and Sherlock and Seth headed straight for Haven Farm on foot.

The hawthorn hedge was just as John described it—gloomy, neglected, overgrown. The garden was wild and weedy, shamefully uncared for, and the house—a converted red-brick barn with two rounded kiln towers at the far end—was indeed a wonderful example of regional architecture, though ramshackle and disintegrating.

Sherlock had planned to break in, but there was no need; the door was open. They found that one of the towers had been gutted and converted into Amberley’s studio space, which was up a short flight of stairs into the roundel, with his archival strongroom in what had once been the plenum chamber, it’s door hanging open to air out the reek of the oil paint he’d used to paint the lintels, jambs and mouldings. The room was empty but for a few of Amberley’s portfolios of sketches, a few paintings stacked against each other along the far wall, an easel and some art supplies. 

There was a safe, open, in the far wall. Empty. Sherlock noticed some scuffs on the floor and on the wainscoting—black rubber—as if something had been dragged through the door. Or someone. 

The other Oast tower, though, had been bricked closed from inside the house, and there appeared to be no way in. They went outside and found the exterior, with no immediately visible entryway and surrounded by more tangled, overgrown hawthorn. It was had looked impassable, but out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock had seen a cat. His cat. Ginger and white, slender and wending its way along the hedge. Sherlock had known—knows!—it's not real; just a figment of his pathology, a sign that his mind could no longer to be trusted to communicate fact to his brain, but he had unthinkingly turned to follow it when it disappeared into narrow gap. After struggling through the tangled vegetation, they'd found a low, rusted, steel door, it's handle smoothed by signs of recent use. Ducking Inside, they’d found what could only be Brent and Doctor Ernest’s charred remains in the plenum. 

“Don’t touch anything,” he’d told Seth, though the boy was frozen in horror. There was little reason to think he would. Tomorrow, when John and Amberley returned, he’d call the police and it would be over.

He’d solved the case in less than a day, so why is he so wretched?

Sherlock pulls his duvet tighter around his shoulders, and lifts his cold feet to wrap them in the ends of the duvet. Huddled tightly there, drifting. Seeing John’s face in his mind, imagining the pub in Bells Yew Green—grim, tatty wallpaper and threadbare carpets. Was he sharing a room with Amberley? The thought chills him.

The buzzing in Sherlock’s nerves is louder now, a constant low-end sinister hum, his left hand and arm, pinned under his pillow, are alive with it. Lately, he’s been dreaming of himself, warping impossibly in ways that he can't describe on awakening. Strange, horrible dreams in which he has become nothing but a litany of bizarre symptoms—bent, his limbs twisting and contorted, unable to move or speak, unable to trust his own perceptions, alone in rooms full of phantoms, terrified. Alone.

_A man so twisted and desperate…_

Sherlock has to call him. He has to call John. He reaches for his mobile. His hands are shaking and hard to control. John is on speed dial. Just one button. 

John answers on the first ring.

“Sherlock,” he says, sharp and alert, “are you alright?”

“It’s him, John. Amberley. It’s—” Sherlock’s voice is rough and tremulous. He’s breathing harder than he realised. 

“Sh, Sherlock. I know it is. I know. It’s ok. I’m ok.”

“How?”

“Oh Sherlock. That email? Bells Yew Green? The car? What was it you once said? Elementary. I know you! I soon as I saw you with Seth I knew. Red trainers. I thought… why would he send me away? By the time the car broke down, I was certain. You searched his house?”

“What? Yes. Yes… we… You knew? And you went anyway?”

“Of course I did. I knew you had a reason, Sherlock. I trust you.”

Sherlock is silent. He doesn’t trust himself, not even to speak.

“Have you taken your meds? Are you ok?”

“I—I have. But, I think I need to take another one.”

“Stress can make it worse, Sherlock, but you’re ok. I’m ok. It’s all fine. Take a small dose and get some sleep. You know you need it. I’m fine, really. I know what I’m about. Don’t worry about me.”

“John…” 

“Really, I’m ok, love. I’m fine! I’ll be home before you know it, and we’ll wrap this up. I can’t wait to hear how you solved it. I knew you could. Get some sleep now. It’s ok.”

Sherlock can’t think of anything to say. He’s overwhelmed by so many things, not the least of which is almost suffocating love. He wants to tell John. He wants to tell John that he’s always been the ballast that has kept him stable; that he can endure anything, do anything, with John as his witness. He doesn’t say any of this. 

Maybe John knows.

“Goodnight, John,” he says. 

Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before going into the bathroom to take a pill. He eats the water biscuit by his bedside. This time, when he lays down, sleep comes easily.


	6. John Watson's Journal, 8th December - 21st December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is solved, post case crash sets in, and John is kind.

_**8 December**_

It’s strange, isn’t it? That Sherlock and I should have lived together for more than two decades, that we should have been so intimate in every possible way for so long, know each other as deeply as we do, and yet he is still so opaque to me in some ways. 

And I to him, it seems.

When Sherlock came back from Eastbourne with Seth (who was wearing, I noted with interest, a brown barn jacket and red trainers) and sent me away with Amberley after this preposterous letter in Bells Yew Green of all places, I knew the case was as good as solved and that this was all about getting Amberley out of his hair. I wasn’t angry; I just did as I was told. I knew he wasn’t telling me everything, and I didn’t mind. I did wonder why he hadn’t found a way to let me know, but. Ok. Par for the course. I took it as a kind of backward expression of his faith in me 

In Bells Yew Green, Amberley and I met with the supposed holder of the mysterious letter, who had no idea what on earth we were talking about. At that point Amberley, looking hunted, demanded to be driven home immediately, and I knew that he was the killer. 

That’s when the serpentine belt went. 

Perfection! 

So, I’d been sent on a fool’s errand with a murderer, in a sabotaged car. Oh, Sherlock. I was grateful, though, to have him back to his old self a bit, and I was still willing to play along. And anyway, God (and Sherlock!) knows I’ve always craved a bit of excitement.

The only reason I wasn’t properly exuberant by the time the serpentine belt went was Amberley’s anxiety, which, by that time, was growing in malevolence by the second. His face had taken on a ferocious, pinched aspect, and was drawn into a sneer that made his nose look more than ever like the beak of a bird of prey. He was pacing and loomed over me as if he meant to threaten me. With the car in for repair at the local shop, there was little else I could do but install us both in the inn above the local pub—separate rooms, thank god!—and retreat. He was livid, and I was glad to leave him to his demons. Once I’d settled in to my own rather dingy little room, I was— still not angry, exactly, but not entirely amused to be stuck in a one pub town with a killer. Away from Sherlock.

It was a surprise, then, when he called me in the wee hours, as I was lying awake worrying about him alone at home, to tell me the truth about Amberley—tremulous and full of worry for me. I—

It’s impossible to quantify just how fond and how— 

Sherlock— Right. Moving on.

In the morning, we headed back, Amberley trying unsuccessfully to mask his ever mounting apprehension, me hoping my nonchalance was holding up convincingly. The journey home may have been fraught with fear and anger, but what I’ll never forget was the look on Amberley’s face when we got back to Haven Farm, and Sherlock asked him point blank where he’d hidden the bodies—it was twisted and nearly demonic; the look of a terrible, cornered beast. Of course, Sherlock already knew the bodies were in the plenum, but he couldn’t tell the police he’d (illegally) searched the farm (with Seth! My God). Accused and obviously guilty, Amberley went so far as to try to poison himself, but Sherlock sprang on him—like a tiger! Amazing!—and knocked the capsules from his hand. Pentobarbital. God knows where he got it. 

In the end, Amberley confessed everything.

If I were still blogging, I might call it “The Adventure of the Retired Colourman” (to Sherlock’s inevitable, deeply felt, and unmistakably expressed chagrin). The whole thing was over before it began. Sherlock solved it almost effortlessly, and in less than a day. 

I knew he could. 

After it was all over—bodies found, statements given—I took Sherlock by the arm and led him out out into the disordered garden. He came silently and willingly. He was passive, almost childlike in his docility. He looked around himself, at the shambolic garden, the thorny, tangled hedge, the neglected flowerbeds, then at me, his face vague and expressionless and said: 

“John, I don’t think this is who I am anymore. I don’t think I… I don’t want to do this.”

I didn’t know what to say. He was staring without focus into the middle distance towards the gap in the wall and hedge, into the lane. I nodded, took his hand and squeezed it, and then led him away. Through that gate, down that lane. 

Led him home.

_**9 December**_

With the excitement of the case passed, things are more or less back to normal today, though I don’t think Sherlock’s as well as he might be. Unusually, he’s still in bed at 9:30 am, after a taciturn evening and a restless night, and shows no sign of rising.

Nervous exhaustion, I think. It always was his way to collapse a bit after a case. 

He’ll be ok. A quiet day is in order.

_**10 December**_

In the balance of more or less back to normal, I have to admit: it seems it’s less. I’ve bowed out of my hours at the surgery this week. I don't feel comfortable leaving him alone. 

Sherlock is so quiet. He answers me, but initiates nothing. He hasn’t been out in the garden, even. I asked him if he wanted me to have Seth do anything, and he just shook his head. He’s been— shaky, blank and, I don’t know. I found him yesterday afternoon in the passageway between the kitchen and the stairs just standing there as if frozen. When I touched him, he came to life like I'd woken him from a dream. He almost seemed startled. I asked if he was ok, and he said “A little tired, I think” his voice absolutely flat.

I was worried, and relieved when he said he wanted to have a nap. 

While he slept, I rang Dr. Novakova, who reminded me that depression is now thought to be part of Parkinsonian pathology. I told her about the case and the events of the past few days. It was clear to us both that it was probably a hangover, really, from all the action. We agreed that I should call her again if he didn’t snap out of it in the next week or so.

_**13 December**_

We’ve had a few quiet, tremoring days now, but today Sherlock is looking less drawn and more physically stable. He’s had some rest, and seems to be going back to his familiar ways—up in the early morning, days spent bent over his manuscripts and notebooks in his potting shed, pottering about the hives and garden.

He’s still mostly silent, though not— cold? It’s almost as if we were back to the early days just after his diagnosis. He’s closed—or no. Almost secretive. He’s been warm and— engaged when I engage him, though not forthcoming. He’s kept to himself unless I address him. Sometimes I catch him watching me. His face doesn’t give much away, but it’s strange to find oneself watched. 

We don’t talk much. But then, I suppose we never have. And since we settled here, into this life, even less. We haven’t needed to. We live in peace, secure, I suppose, in each other. We eat and sit together in companionable silence, talk when we talk, and fall asleep pressed against each other. It’s fine. I mean, it’s good. More than good. It’s everything I want. It’s just—

I think I want to talk about the case with him. About what happened, about that phone call, and about what he said at Amberley’s farm. About what he meant by that. I want to know how he’s feeling. I don’t want to force him to talk if he doesn’t want to. Sherlock has always been very private. But— he doesn’t read my dramatic retellings anymore, and I feel like I want to process this with him. At the same time don’t want to force him to process it with me. Impose on him. Anyway, something tells me he’s not prepared to do so, and that waiting—patience—is the better part of valour.

So, I wait. But, it’s like a buzz. Like my own kind of tremor.

_**20 December**_

This afternoon when I returned home from the surgery, I found Sherlock in the driveway—the winter-blooming honeysuckle, wintersweet, I think, is its common name—that we planted not long after we moved into the cottage was finally blooming, and for the first time. Sherlock told me that sometimes it takes years for them to flower. Thick-petaled, almost waxy, pale yellow flowers with deep purple centres on bare branches, positively swarming with fat, furry bees. Winter bees! Bees in fur coats! I didn’t know such a thing existed. I expressed my surprise to Sherlock.

“Bombus terrestris,” Sherlock told me, smiling. “You can tell by their buff tails,” he added, pointing to a space under the hedge against the stone wall where a small congregation had gathered around an opening between the earth and stone, “they live in underground colonies, and their size makes them better able to withstand temperature variation, so they’re active in winter. They’re attracted to the colour yellow, and the scent.”

The scent of the flowers was strong—not sweetly floral, but spicy and penetrating. I realised I had smelled them from down the road on my walk home. No wonder the bees had moved in. We stood still for a time, watching them in silence.

“John?” he said to me, without turning. He paused uncertainly for a moment, tilted his head, and then, hesitantly, “I’m sorry. For... The case.”

I turned to look at him. Held my tongue. Let him finish.

“I was… afraid. I was afraid I was… like Amberley. Twisted. Holding on to y-... My illness, like… a... a black hole. I had to solve it on my own to prove... I was afraid of... losing you, I think.” he said inarticulately, looking down further and frowning.

I took his hand, laced my fingers between his and pulled him closer to me. He came, a bit unsteadily, but not unwilling, still not looking up.

“Sherlock.” I said, craning to look up into his evasive face, “what have I got to do or say to make it clear to you that I am exactly where I want to be?”

His face was expressionless, but his eyes were wet, blinking.

“Sherlock, my life is with you. And, really,” I added, “there has never been any question that you are indeed something of a singularity, and that I never had a chance of escaping you. I fell into your event horizon the moment I met you at Bart’s. There is nothing different about that now— with your Parkinson’s.”

The frowning deepened. Impossibly deep frowning.

“But John,” he paused, “I feel like…” he shook his head, as if unwilling to go on, and then did: “After everything… I sometimes worry that… I… It’s...”

“Stop there,” I told him, “because it’s all rubbish, and frankly, it’s insulting. I chose you, and I am here because I can’t imagine being anywhere else. I chose you, and I don’t care how you age, or what happens. Everyone does, Sherlock. The universe is made of black holes and dark matter. Black holes are the architects of the universe. They birth stars. They create galaxies.”

He did stop, then, and looked into my eyes. His were wet and pale. He looked at me searchingly for a moment. 

“Do they?” he asked.

“They do,” I told him.

I squeezed his hand and went into the house. Left him there in the drive to contemplate his winter blooms. 

_**21 December**_

It’s a glorious winter day today, bright and cold with blue skies. We both woke early.

Sherlock is in his shed, smoke coming from his chimney and the smell of his wood fire is one of my favourite things on a day like this. There was a frost last night, and the garden is under a fine layer of silvery ice.

Last night, after Sherlock’s confession in the drive, we sat together as we used to do in London, in our chairs by the fire. He told me all about the case—how Seth had helped him, how his phantom cat had led him to the bodies in the plenum. Wonderful!

He also told me about his dreams—the ones in which his body is twisted and made unreconisable by pathology. What terrifying thoughts. It's no wonder he’s been low. As he told me, though, it was if he was visibly lightening—throwing off a burden. Perhaps it helped to share them—made them less powerful somehow? Or, diffused them in some way? We’ll see. I hope so. It certainly helped me to talk, once I’d learned to. I’ll remember for next time. Perhaps I could be more help.

The most unsettling thing he told me is that since the case, he’s often felt that Amberley was standing behind or beside him—looming—and turned to see that there was no one there. At first, I was alarmed, but he reminded me that hallucinations taking the form of a feeling of a presence are a reasonably common Parkinsonian symptom, especially in patients who experience other hallucinations, and said he wasn’t frightened by it—he knew it was only that; that is was not real. Just, it left him with a feeling of deep sadness. He empathised with Amberley. He understood. It was why he had despised him so much. It’s why he pities the man now. 

Which makes me sad. But. This isn’t about me. I know that.

We talked, too, about what he’d said in the drive at Haven Farm— that he didn’t think was a detective anymore. That he didn’t want to be. That in a way, it felt like he had lost himself—his identity—to age and infirmity, but that in another way, it was as if he were simply another person now. Another version of the person he has always been.

Sherlock is so many things. He’s my partner and lover. He’s a flawed human being and he’s Seth’s hero. He’s a genius. He’s a gardener and bee-keeper, a writer, and a scientist. He’s a sometimes irascible, eccentric old geezer, who gives honey to all the neighbours. He’s genuinely kind, even when he’s not. He’s Parkinsonian. 

He’s my best friend, as he has been for decades. There’s no one I love more.

“It’s something you can still do, Sherlock, if you wanted to,” I told him, “but it’s never been all you are.”

We slept well last night and woke as we fell asleep—wrapped around each other. After lunch, we’re going for a long walk through the wood, maybe up as far as the edge of the hill that overlooks the sea. 

I’m looking forward to it.


	7. The Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the garden, a diagnosis, a coda. All is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finished! Very Important notes at the end. Plus, this:
> 
> _Once you’re clear about the fact that the bee lives as if it were in an atmosphere pervaded thoroughly by love…Perhaps then you have noticed something about the entire nature of beekeeping, something, I would say, of the nature of the enigma._
> 
> \- Rudolf Steiner from _Bees: Lectures; with and afterword on the artistic alchemy of Joseph Beuys_

Midsummer. 

The day is bright and mild, a few high gauzy clouds brushed over pale blue, broken by the gliding swoops of the housemartins. In short, another day, very much like many others, perfect, spent in the intimate heaven of the garden. Sherlock Holmes -- clad in mossy green threadbare cord and faded chambray, his sleeves loose and pushed up over angular elbows, his right arm crooked to rest a hand on his hip, his left hanging, not altogether loosely, at his side -- stands with his back to his hives at the edge of his back half acre; the space between the hives at the edge of the garden proper, and gnarled, aged apple trees and bramble at the edge of their plot. 

Sherlock’s left hand, hanging at his side, is alive -- the fingers tapping their own rhythm against the palm -- and ignored. There’s a slight stoop in his shoulders, but his eyes are keen and bright. It’s one year since his diagnosis. Since he learned that his mind and body were finally truly diverging, this time without his intending it. Sherlock knows that for today it’s something he can only just control, and he’s at peace with that. For now. He has other, more engaging concerns.

With Seth’s help, the back half-acre is now a pretty little Arcadia of bright, indomitable wildflowers swaying together in the soft breeze, alive with pollinators: flies, wasps, butterflies and of course, bees -- some of them Sherlock’s, some, no doubt, their wilder cousins or visitors from other nearby hives, and still others are the fat, buff-tailed bumblebees from the new colony under the chimonanthus praecox in the drive. Sherlock loves the abundant wildness of it, the uncontrollable, perpetual renewal, and the way it will all go on without his interference, bees, flowers, seasons, always changing, always new and always the same -- for as long as it is left to do so.

He watches one of his workers as she darts in and out of each speckled bell-like bloom of a tall digitalis purpurea, marvelling as always at the sheer mechanical perfection of the creature’s minute, clockwork movements. Her striped abdomen pulsing rhythmically, dusted all over with pollen, her corbiculae already heavily laden, her legs working constantly to consolidate what she has foraged. She’ll carry it back to the hive to sustain her sisters in their endless, perpetual industry.

He feels movement against his calf and ankle and looks down to see the adolescent ginger tom John had (in a bout of what can only be described as unconscionable sentimentality) given him at Christmas after The Last Case. The cat is a prim, finicky creature whose lavish affections are bestowed exclusively on its own terms, as is its not inconsiderable viciousness. John had insisted on calling it Biscuit. A ridiculous name. To his chagrin, Sherlock loves him -- there’s no other word! -- ludicrous, tiny, insignificant creature that he is, and the feeling is mutual. The cat is insistent, rising up on his hind legs to rub his wet nose against Sherlock’s trouser leg. Smiling faintly, he bends to reach down and stroke the animal’s proffered head with his steadier right hand. It trills at him in response, undone by pleasure. A proper hedonist.

Behind him, the hives are active, buzzing with the incessant labour of their multitudes and headily fragrant in the warmth of the sun: pine, wax, honey and the slight, organic mustiness of fermenting pollen. Sherlock loves it. Loves watching the bees alight and return to their landing platforms, entering the hive heavily, laden with nectar and pollen, and leaving it lightened of their loads by their nursemaid sisters, ready to collect more -- tireless and endlessly fascinating. 

The colonies are healthy and productive, relatively free of mites and disease, but Sherlock has discovered that the colony in the last and smallest of his three hives, the one nearest the edge of the garden, the one Seth has been keeping this summer under Sherlock’s watchful eye, is queenless. Though the colony’s industry is undiminished, stores of pollen and honey are outpacing brood. The bees are restless. The diagnosis is certain, and the hive is in danger of collapse. 

It’s an excellent opportunity to teach the boy.

Sherlock is bent nearly double, his ear to the back of the troubled hive, when John comes across the lawn, a bacon sandwich on a plate in one hand, and a mug of tea in the other, smiling in greeting, his silvery hair ruffling in the breeze. After years of practice, he has overcome his wariness of the hives. The bees are docile when unthreatened, and John has learned not to react to them. He holds out the plate to Sherlock, who picks up the sandwich and takes a bite without comment.

“Queenless.” Sherlock tells John, gesturing, after another bite.

“Oh?” John asks. He frowns, and the line between his eyebrows deepens. He’s holding the plate like a butler, but sets the cup of tea down on top of the hive. Attentive.

“Salvageable,” Sherlock answers, “but, in danger.”

“Seth?” John asks.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, as he takes a tablet out of his shirt pocket and washes it back with swig of tea. “Thank you, John,” he adds, as he flexes the disobedient fingers in his left hand and then tries to squeeze them into a fist.

John sees. Puts the plate with the half-eaten sandwich down on the top of the hive, and reaches over to pick up Sherlock’s long, white hand, massaging and manipulating it firmly between his own, digging into the pads of Sherlock’s palm with his thumbs, and then moving up the arm, kneading his way to Sherlock’s shoulder and neck, manipulating the joints. Sherlock closes his eyes, his head falling forward, the bees like a halo around his black and silver hair, like he’s been knocked out in a cartoon.

“Good?” John asks, his voice tight. Sherlock opens his eyes. It’s not always easy for John, he knows. 

He catches John’s eyes with his own and nods, confirming, “Good.” 

John stops, and holds Sherlock’s fingers in his own for a moment, looks down to see if they have stilled. They have, a bit. He turns to the hive for a moment, and finally back at Sherlock. Still serious. “When?” he asks.

“Today.” Sherlock looks towards the gate at the side of the house as Seth lifts the latch and comes through. “We’ll see if he can deduce it,” he adds, winking.

John’s expression softens at this. He turns to watch Seth as he crosses the garden. 

The boy has shot up in the past few months, and at 16 is not quite as tall as Sherlock once was, which is to say, he is as tall as Sherlock is now. His long, bony limbs are comically coltish and awkward in his bee suit and red trainers. He carries his veiled hat at his side, his ginger hair shaggy and unkempt.

“Hi, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes!” The look in his face keen and eager.

John returns his greeting with a curt, but good-humoured nod.

“Seth,” Sherlock says archly, lifting his chin in greeting to his apprentice. “Ready to inspect the hive?”

“Ready? I can’t wait!” Seth answers, fidgeting with the hat and veil in his hands. He’s excited, but apprehensive, too.

“I’ll get the smoker going,” John offers. 

Sherlock nods, watches John as he heads towards the potting shed, and turns back to look at Seth. “Well? What’s first?”

“Listening?” Seth asks. When Sherlock nods, he goes round the back of the hive and presses his ear to it, intent. After a moment, the boy goes to the next hive and listens there, too, comparing, and then back to the first.

After a moment: “They seem… louder. Agitated somehow…?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies. “And the buzz is higher in pitch. Can you hear it?” When the boy nods, Sherlock gestures, “Come round and watch the bees leaving the hive. Do you notice anything?”

Seth comes around, bends to watch them. Replies: “Uhm… No? Not really?”

“Look at how they circle a bit with their wings raised straight up before they launch.”

“Uh huh,” Seth says, uncertain, watching. “Oh! they do!” He acknowledges finally, turning to Sherlock, rapt and eager. “What does it mean, Mr. Holmes?”

“Let’s see. Ah, John! Thank you,” Sherlock smiles, taking the smoker and passing it to Seth, who holds it in front of the bottom board, directing it into the hive. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Sherlock loves the eager look in Seth’s eyes, how fascinated he is by the bees. He watches as the boy lifts the honey super off the top and puts it down on the grass, and then smokes the bees in the deeper brood box. Then he takes the smoker, and watches patiently, as Seth lifts each frame, examines it, eliciting his observations, prompting where he needs to, and keeping watch over the bees, brushing them gently away with his fingers as Seth slides the frames gently back into place.

“There’re a lot of pollen stores… and honey stores…” Seth observes, “...in the deep hive body? Is that right, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock shakes his head faintly, and hums to encourage the boy.

“And, I don’t see the queen.” Seth looks up, brow furrowed, lifting the last frame. “Oh! Mr. Holmes! Look at this!” The boy is pointing to a small cluster of large, open cups at the edge of the frame. Queen cells. 

“Yes. That’s good! What are they?”

“I don’t know!”

“What have you noticed about the hive so far?”

“Well, the bees are agitated… and they’re… busy. They’re making a lot of honey and storing food, but… in the brood box? Are these drone cells, Sherlock? Or… Oh. No.” The boy looks up, his face suddenly full of worry. “Mr Holmes, the queen…?”

“Dead.” Sherlock confirms, “gone.”

Seth looks down at the hive. “Why?” he asks, strickenly.

“It’s nothing you did, Seth. She was five years old. These things just happen. What will become of them without a queen? What must we do?”

“The bees will work.... But… after a while, foraging will slow… and the workers might start to lay. There will be too many drones, workers will die, and without a queen, they can’t be replenished... and the colony will collapse.”

“Yes. The queen is the brain of the colony. Under her organising authority the workers act as one to preserve and perpetuate the colony, everything as it should be. Without her, the workers will eventually lose their right sense of purpose, act in ways that hurt the colony, and they will all die. So, what shall we do?” Sherlock prompts.

“Well…” Seth begins, “We need to requeen, right? First, we need to know how long it’s been since she was here. We need to look for eggs and brood!”

“Good, yes,” Sherlock replies, as the boy lifts the frame he’s still holding up and looks more closely at it. There is uncapped larvae, but no eggs. “How long has it been?”

“Four to… about 9 days?” Seth asks, his eyes lighting up when Sherlock nods his agreement, “and… oh! These must be queen cups!” he finishes excitedly, pointing at the larger, protruding cells.

Sherlock nods, stays silent. Lets the boy reach the conclusion.

“The bees are making a new queen!”

“Yes, they are. That’s good news. We’ll leave them to it. There’s a good chance they can get themselves queenright. If they do it themselves, their queen will be stronger, and her wildness will ensure genetic diversity in the colony, making them more resistant to parasites and disease. We’ll swap a frame of brood and eggs from another hive to keep the workers foraging and nursing, and then give them a few weeks. If they aren’t successful, we can be prepared to install a queen ourselves.” 

Seth kneels to slide the frame gently back into the box, careful of the bees and their unborn queens. “Do you think they’ll be ok, Mr Holmes?” he asks, looking up.

“I do.” Sherlock looks at Seth, pleased, and almost feels like ruffling his hair. “They’ll be fine. They’ll get through this.”

John, who has been looking on all the while, listening, smiles warmly, his eyes soft, and does ruffle the boy’s hair.

+++

That night, Sherlock goes to bed early. He’s tired and a little stiff. He’s finally learnt that the more rested he is, the better he sleeps, and the better he sleeps, the better his days are. His body is less cooperative when he’s fatigued. He strips off his clothes, drapes them over the chair in the corner of the room and gets into bed, listening to John puttering about in the kitchen, clearing up the last of the day’s detritus, putting on the dishwasher, taking out the rubbish.

A few minutes later, John arrives and disappears into the ensuite to clean his teeth before coming out to undress and toss his clothes over Sherlock’s. Sherlock watches his partner’s body move in the dim light of their bedroom. John’s older now, but he’s no less compelling. Sherlock wonders: if he wakes up every morning next to John, and if he goes to bed every night with John, if he can look forward, every day, to the moment when John comes to bed, and his warm skin slides up against Sherlock’s, what could possibly happen in any given day that he couldn’t bear? He thinks, a bit mournfully, of Mr. Amberley, and of the word “haven”. He feels grateful.

“I was thinking,” John says, pulling Sherlock to him, laying his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder and chest, his hand sliding possessively over Sherlock’s belly, and down around his waist and hip, “that we could walk all the way to the sea tomorrow. What d’you think? Anything else on? Will you be up for it?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock assents, laying his cheek against John’s hair, tightening his arm around John’s shoulders and pulling him closer, “why not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. MY GOD. I wrote a whole, entire story. I'm a little emotional, honestly.
> 
> I could not have finished this story without the immeasurably kind encouragement and help of doctornerdington, who loved it, and made me believe in it and in myself. The gift of her help is honestly one of the most important and essential gifts anyone has ever given me. I love you so, so much, Doc, and I am eternally and profoundly grateful that you are my friend. I am lucky. 
> 
> This is for you, with love.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Upon Time's Tide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892717) by [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed)




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